


Scar Tissue

by FancyTumbles (FancyTrinkets)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Ficlet, Hugs, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Past Torture, The Night After the Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:15:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23379721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancyTrinkets/pseuds/FancyTumbles
Summary: There's a scar on his chest. Crowley can't hide it forever.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 37
Kudos: 283
Collections: My Lot Don't Send Rude Notes





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WhiteleyFoster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteleyFoster/gifts).



> Based on this [artwork by Whiteley Foster](https://whiteleyfoster.tumblr.com/post/612585496466587648/if-my-people-hear-i-rescued-an-angel-ill-be-the).

Exhausted and aching, Crowley feels nearly undone by the relentlessness and malice of every hellish thing that has come for him in the past several hours. 

But here and now, he seems to have found some respite. And all he can imagine doing next is finding a dark, quiet place to curl up and sleep.

He shuts the door behind him and then everything moves so quickly he barely has time to think. He's being pulled forward, nearly yanked off his feet. He's dimly aware of hands grabbing him and arms with strength well beyond his own, wrapping themselves around him.

When his brain catches up to what's happening to him, he finds he's still standing in the dark open space of his flat. But now Aziraphale is hugging him — really quite fiercely — as though Crowley is something precious.

After the day they've had — chasing an Antichrist, losing the Bentley and the bookshop, defying Satan himself — Crowley is too exhausted and too numb to do anything much in response. It takes most of the strength he has left to lift his hand and pat the angel's shoulder.

"Safe for now," he says. 

With Aziraphale's weight against him, constricting his breath, he realizes at last that he's been physically uncomfortable since he crossed through the wall of fire on the M25. Every breath is painful, tastes faintly of soot. 

He uses a miracle to unscorch his lungs. 

_That's so much better._

Crowley's whole body relaxes. He's still held in a solid embrace by his hereditary enemy, but now it actually feels good — a soft place of relief and safety.

"S'terrible," he says — a whisper against fluffy white hair as he rests his face on Aziraphale's head. "Don't stop."

He can feel Aziraphale chuckle. 

Crowley takes a breath, relaxes more deeply. He shuts his eyes and simply rests. He could sleep here, he thinks, standing upright with only Aziraphale to keep him from falling. He's exhausted, after all. And drifting towards sleep has always been his particular talent, even without this all-encompassing weariness to ease the way.

It's the prying question that rouses him.

"Crowley? What is this?"

Aziraphale's fingers have found that place against his ribs where the skin is warped with scar tissue. 

"Oh. That," Crowley says. "S'nothing."

"It's a wound," Aziraphale says, his fingers accurately tracing its shape above the thin layer of Crowley's shirt.

"Old wound," Crowley says. "It's just a scar."

"It feels like a sigil."

Crowley sighs. (Curse this angel and his skill at ferreting out symbols.)

"That's because it is," he says. 

There's no sense lying about it, but he had hoped to put this conversation off as long as possible. Although, after Aziraphale's epiphany during the bus ride about the meaning of Agnes' final prophecy, this particular conversation could only have been delayed a few more hours at most. Not much will remain hidden once they successfully swap their corporal forms. And they will succeed, Crowley feels sure of it. Agnes' prophecies are always true, and Aziraphale has an uncanny knack for deciphering riddles.

Judging by the next several words out of his mouth, Aziraphale, too, is thinking about the prophecy.

"If we're going to, well — _switch places_ —" His voice falls to a whisper. "I think I ought to know about significant scars."

"Right, yeah," Crowley says, and steps back just enough to start undoing his buttons. 

Aziraphale releases him from the embrace, but doesn't move away. He's standing very close when Crowley removes his shirt entirely to reveal the pale, raised scar.

"Leviathan cross," Crowley says. "They branded me with it."

"Oh my word." Concern is etched into the lines that crease across Aziraphale's forehead. 

"It's alright, angel. Happened in the 1790s. Doesn't hurt _now_."

"Do they d–do that to everyone?" 

Aziraphale rarely stutters. When he does, it's a sign that he's nervous. And if he is, Crowley can understand why. It's never been safe for him to speak so openly about Head Office and its methods. This conversation is a whole new territory they're charting together. And it is, in fact, terrifying — because the stakes are so high. Both of their lives could hang in the balance.

"Not to everyone," Crowley admits. "It's like I told you. My lot doesn't send rude notes."

"Oh, Crowley." 

His voice is a breathy whisper and Aziraphale looks overwhelmed with this new information. He reaches out, his hand propelled forward by that familiar angelic instinct to comfort and soothe. But instead of connecting, he holds back at the last possible moment, and his right hand waits in midair.

Crowley watches, not sure why Aziraphale stopped. And then it occurs to him. The scar is repulsive and ugly, a symbol of evil. No, of course an angel wouldn't want to touch. 

Crowley is about to pull away when Aziraphale breaks the silence. 

"May I?" he asks. "I don't want to touch you without– well, this is silly. It just seems like I ought to ask your permission first."

Crowley shuts his eyes and smiles, laughs a little. He doubted for a second. He really did. This day has been rough on him. But no. Aziraphale's not like the others, never has been.

"Yeah, angel, you can touch." 

Aziraphale nods — a quiet _thank you_ , perhaps. And then the warmth of his hand is pressed to Crowley's ribs. 

"Was this my fault?" he asks. "Because of the Arrangement or–"

"No," Crowley says. "Nothing to do with that."

He steps closer, takes hold of Aziraphale's other hand. The angel's fingers curl firmly around his own. And even though he can't sense love, not in the occult way, Crowley feels it the human way for certain, welling up inside him to the point of overflowing. 

He squeezes Aziraphale's hand.

"Not a pretty story," he says. "Sure you want to hear it?"

He isn't sure he wants to tell it. But Aziraphale nods a second time. His expression is soft. There's a gentle look in his eyes, but with something fierce there, too — a quiet strength. And all of a sudden, Crowley is certain. He can tell the truth of what happened and it won't be a burden. It won't be too much for Aziraphale to bear. 

The bond that's between them is real. And, oh, it is _strong_. Neither the terror of Hell nor all the menace of Heaven can break it asunder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to write the branding scene, as a flashback, but others have done it so well. And I like leaving this where it ends. It takes courage and safety to open up and talk about trauma.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wouldn't leave me alone, so I added a second chapter, from Aziraphale's point of view.

Crowley's sofa is more comfortable than it looks. Aziraphale is grateful for that, at least. What he isn't grateful for is the fact that Crowley has _lied_ to him.

He is frowning at Crowley, and not just with his mouth. His entire face is participating in this one. He can feel the careworn lines in his forehead, drawn tighter by the downward motion of his eyebrows. His jaw is clenched. His nose twitches. Come to think of it, he's not really frowning at all. Aziraphale is scowling.

It takes a moment for Crowley to notice, but as soon as he does, he stops talking and tilts his head.

"What? What's wrong with your face?" 

He glances down at the cup clasped between Aziraphale's hands. 

"Did you want cocoa instead?"

"No," Aziraphale says, "the tea is fine, thank you. It isn't that."

Crowley sits beside him on the sofa. He's got one leg stretched out in front of him, his foot on the floor. The other leg is bent at the knee, resting entirely on the sofa between them. His shirt is back on, but he hasn't buttoned it, and Aziraphale can see the pale Leviathan scar. 

"It _was_ my fault," Aziraphale says. "You lied to me when you said it wasn't."

Crowley shakes his head, and now he's the one who's frowning.

"It was _their_ fault. For being — well, _them_. Most demons are paranoid. They don't trust anybody. They were just taking it out on me for once. Change of pace, you know? Gotta keep things interesting down in the old torture chambers."

"You _just said_ they saw you rescuing people from the Bastille. Crowley, you rescued _me_."

Crowley opens his mouth as if to speak, but instead he makes a series of complicated grimaces. Aziraphale waits patiently, aware that it can take a while for Crowley to find the words he's looking for. 

"Yeah... Got lucky there, actually," he says, after a full ten seconds of silent facial contortion. "They didn't actually notice you. It was later that day. I went back and freed some kids."

"Oh, _Crowley_."

Aziraphale shuts his eyes and remembers. 

It was so many years ago, but he can still recall the rank odor of the Parisian streets. They were practically an open sewer — almost as bad as London at the time. In contrast to all that putrescence, a fine aroma emanated from the cafe. Seeking refuge there with Crowley to enjoy a delicious meal, now _that_ was a truly excellent afternoon. And during the course of their luncheon, Aziraphale had mentioned the imprisoned children he'd seen when they'd taken him to his cell. Such a shame that he couldn't save them from a terrible fate.

"They thought it was a good deed on my part," Crowley says, and his words pull Aziraphale away from the memories.

The angel shakes his head, blinks back the tears he feels rising. "And they branded you in punishment. Oh, my dear, how truly awful!"

"No," Crowley says, and his voice is measured, careful, as though he's choosing his words just so. "The brand was my reward. For loyalty."

"What do you mean?" 

_Loyalty? To Hell? What loyalty?_ Aziraphale isn't sure where this is going. If he trusted Crowley less, he might feel uneasy, troubled by a vague suspicion rising. But, no, it's nothing like that. The one thing he's certain of is that, deep down, Crowley is good. Crowley would never betray him. 

_Would he?_

That small, shameful sliver of doubt is banished entirely by the next thing Crowley says.

"They had me tied to a chair near a bottomless pit of fire. They were going to toss me in. So I bullshitted my way out of it."

Crowley smiles, clearly pleased with himself. 

"Get this — I told them that saving children during a revolution is the best way to destabilize a society. All that trauma, parents killed, those kids grow up and they're broken. They never have a chance for a normal life. All they ever do is create misery for those around them."

"And Hell believed you?"

"They did. Inclined to, aren't they? I mean, it happened to all of them. Broken by trauma. And none of them ever got out. Not like I did."

Aziraphale can feel his own harsh expression softening, his worries easing. A different emotion washes over him, saturates through him. He recognizes it, of course, as tenderness.

He sets his teacup aside and reaches out, extending his arms towards Crowley. He doesn't even have to say _come here, please_ , because Crowley is already shifting closer. He's ducking forward and leaning in, allowing the angel to pull him into another warm embrace. 

As he settles his head against Aziraphale's shoulder, Crowley continues to tell his story.

"Hastur complained, obviously, but the others seemed glad enough to spare me. _'We knew you weren't a traitor, Crowley. Just having a bit of fun, you know how it is.'_ Then they said instead of punishing me, they were going to give me a reward."

He points down towards his ribs, towards that terrible scar.

"But I knew," Crowley says. "They called it a reward, but what they meant was a warning."

He reaches up, very gently, to touch Aziraphale's cheek.

"I got scared," Crowley says. "I knew I couldn't ever let them find out about us."

At long last, Aziraphale understands. He turns his head and brushes his lips against the inside of Crowley's wrist, the softest of kisses.

"And that's why you asked me for holy water."

"Yes," Crowley says, "that's why." 

His whole body relaxes, all the tension falling away, as if he's releasing a breath he's been holding for much too long. And for the next few hours, he rests there, a comfortable weight against Aziraphale's chest and belly. 

_My love_ , Aziraphale thinks. _We'll get through this together._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm hopelessly soft.


End file.
